


As Long as the Dandelions Grow

by bethylark



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, In Panem AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-18 05:34:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5900239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethylark/pseuds/bethylark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An in-panem, no games AU exploring the complex relationship from childhood onward between our beloved Peeta and Katniss, told from Peeta's POV. This starts out innocent, but will become more dramatic as the story progresses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I’ve had this idea for a little while now, but I decided I wouldn’t write it until I’d come up with at least a rough idea of the plot for a whole story. I’m almost 100% certain that this will all be told from Peeta’s POV. I’d love to have feedback on whether or not you think this is worth pursuing. I’m not abandoning my other story, I just couldn’t seem to get anywhere on AGDHB while this one was distracting my imagination, lol.
> 
> The title is a little play on a song. If you can guess the song, I’ll give you… well, something. I’ll come up with some kind of prize haha. I’ll give another hint at the beginning of the next chapter.
> 
> -Gail

**Chapter 1**

I’ve been told I have a remarkable memory. I guess it must be true, since I remember my first day of school in vivid detail; much more than any average five-year-old boy is capable of. But I think it has more to do with the impact she made on me.

 

 

 

My father is holding my hand as he walks me toward the dilapidated building that functions as the elementary school for the children of District 12. My older brothers had run ahead of us as soon as we left the bakery; racing each other without a second thought about their nervous baby brother lagging behind or the embarrassment that may have come from my presence in front of their friends. I don’t mind though, they’re classified as the “big’uns” which seems to just mean a slightly larger shoe size and being able to write your name without help. I am pretty much there though… _P-E-T-A._ Whatever, I’m five years old and named after a type of bread, and my parents didn’t even have the decency to spell my name the same as its inspiration.

 

As we get to the schoolyard, my wide eyes try to take in all that’s around me. There’s a large maple tree in the grass near the door, and dandelions scattered throughout the lawn that are thankfully only covered in morning dew – later there will be bees perching on any number of the unsuspecting yellow weeds. I feel a little nervous as I think about how I’ll have to watch my step if I try to play out here later.

 

My father then stops and bends down to be level with me. “See that little girl?” he says, nodding towards a black-haired girl a few yards ahead, her hair done in two braids that reached just below her shoulders in a red-plaid dress.

 

I nod to my father. “I wanted to marry her mother, but she ran off with a coal miner,” he says wistfully, but still keeping a small smile on his lips.

 

“A coal miner?” I ask, “why did she want a coal miner if she could’ve had you?”

 

Still looking off to where the dark-haired girl is standing, he answers. “Because when he sings… even the birds stop to listen.”

 

I find it hard to buy that. How could someone fall in love just from hearing someone sing? It sounds like the stuff of the fairytales that my brothers tell me are “stupid and girly.” So I dismiss this bit of information and walk forward, now feeling more confident about my first day of school.

 

 

In kindergarten, we have the same teach and classroom for most subjects, with a few exceptions for special assemblies throughout the week. Our teacher is a young woman named Miss Blackwater, with the typical seam looks except for her dark brown eyes that give off a feeling of warmth and comfort, reminding me of the chocolate we sometimes use at the bakery to make cakes and cookies.

 

After providing us all with pencils, a folder, and other school staples, Miss Blackwater asks us all to stand and walk to the front of the classroom so that she can give us our assigned seats. She walks from desk to desk, reading our names from a list as she taps the desk and makes a point to look at us, put a face to the name. I’m given a desk in the far row by the windows, second from the front. The girl in front of me, her familiar blonde pigtails bouncing with excitement, is someone I know – Delly Cartwright. Her family runs the shoe shop. Sometimes we play together with my middle brother and a few other merchant kids in the street, drawing with chalk, chasing each other, stuff like that. Delly turns around to give me a bright smile, obviously wanting to start chatting away but restraining herself as per Miss Blackwater’s instructions to be quiet.

 

Miss Blackwater makes her way through each row until we are all seated, and I look up from my daydreaming and staring out the window when she starts to write her name on the chalkboard while simultaneously pronouncing each letter for us to follow along. When I look around the classroom, my eyes land on the dark-haired girl again. I was already lost in my daydream when the teacher had spoken her name and showed her a seat, and I find myself determined to learn it at some point today.

 

We spend a good amount of time reciting the alphabet, practicing our first names, how to hold a pencil, etc. until Miss B. announces that it’s time for music assembly and tells us to form a single file line at the door for her to lead us to the music room.

 

The music room turns out to be a small section of what they call the “multi-purpose room,” where an older lady sits by a wooden upright piano and a small rolled-in chalkboard with scribbling on it that I don’t understand. There’s an old, worn-out blue carpet laying on the floor in front of her and as we walk in she instructs us to take a seat on it. At this point in the school day, my attention span is nearly run-out, and I have trouble paying attention as the teacher gives her introduction.

 

My attention is piqued, however, when the teacher asks if any of us know the Valley Song, and the dark-haired girl shoots her hand straight up in the air with total confidence and determination. The teacher tells her to come forward and pushes the wooden piano stool up in front of everyone. The girl steps up onto it and the teacher asks for her name.

 

“Katniss,” she says, in a soft but solid voice. With what comes next, I know I will not forget her name.

 

Then she starts to sing, and I feel mesmerized as I stare in awe at the girl with the voice of an angel. How such a young child could have control over their vocal chords enough to be perfectly in-tune, is a mystery to even the teacher as she watches with the same level of curiosity as the rest of the class.

 

_Down in the valley,_

_The valley so low_

_Hang you head over,_

_Hear the wind blow_

_Hear the wind blow, love,_

_Hear the wind blow_

_Hang you head over,_

_Hear the wind blow_

 

_Down in the valley,_

_Walking between_

_Telling our story,_

_Here’s what it means…_

_Roses love sunshine,_

_Violets love dew_

_Angels in heaven,_

_Know I love you_

_Know I love you, dear,_

_Know I love you_

_Angels in heaven,_

_Know I love you_

At this point, I remember what my father had said about the birds stopping to listen, and I look to the open window and focus my attention on the background noise just long enough to conclude that the birds indeed have fallen silent.

 

 

 

My first week of school passes by quickly enough, until it’s Friday afternoon and we’re all breathing an air of anticipation for the weekend. I fidget in my seat while Miss Blackwater is reading a story to us from a chair in the front of the room. My father had told me this morning that if I kept it a secret and came home today with no bad behavior to report, he would let me have a square of peanut butter fudge while Mother is out visiting Aunt Carolyn, so I can barely contain my excitement.

 

When she finishes the story, Miss B. announces that since we’ve been such a good class this week, we’ll spend the rest of the afternoon doing a fun, partnered activity. She has us count down the rows from one to twelve, since there are 24 of us, and tells us to find a seat next to the person with the matching number.

 

I have no intention of giving up my precious window seat, so I hold up the number two with my fingers and wait for my partner to find me. As we all get settled, and I’m surprised – and a little delighted – to discover my partner is none other than Katniss Everdeen. She makes her way over and gives me a small smile before sitting down next to me. I gather up my courage and introduce myself with the best smile I can muster, and she introduces herself in turn, though I know very well who she is.

 

Miss B. gives us each four pieces of paper and some colored pencils, and then tells us we must write a little story with our partner. “Write” isn’t really accurate, though; most of us can’t read at all, so really we’ll just be drawing pictures and then telling our story to the class on Monday.

 

The room becomes filled with the chatter and giggles of young children as we all get to work. I realize I’m fidgeting again as I look over at my partner, for once drawing a blank on what to create. Thankfully, she seems more at ease to be in my presence than I am hers.

 

“What’s your favorite color?” she asks, as if that has anything to do with the task at hand.

 

I smile anyways. “Um… orange. Or maybe yellow.” I can’t decide, truthfully. I think it’s orange but with a little yellow mixed in to soften it, kind of like a sunset.

 

She hands me both the orange and yellow pencils. “Mine is green,” she says as she claims that pencil for herself.

 

“What do you want to draw?” I ask her.

 

She shrugs and thinks for a moment. “We can draw us, picking berries with our baby,” she decides.

 

“Our baby?” I ask.

 

“Yeah, like I’ll be the mom and you’ll be the dad,” she clarifies, and I find myself smiling at the idea of it – as well as the fact that this is her daydream.

I begin drawing myself standing in some grass, and look up at Katniss as I start to draw her.

 

“Oh, um, do you wanna draw something?” I suddenly ask. She has an easy smile resting on her face as she watches me, both elbows resting on the table as she swings her legs back and forth idly.

 

Instead of answering my question, she replies, “You draw good.” It seems sincere and I smile before returning to drawing her standing next to the figure of me on the paper. I’m just starting to draw a little girl with dark hair and blue eyes when she interrupts me.

 

“You need to make some trees,” she says, pointing to some blank spots on the paper. “That’s where the berries are, by the trees,” she explains.

 

I nod and do as she says, but she insists on drawing the leaves (or more accurately, green squiggles) herself with her cherished green pencil. We start on the next page and I draw us in the act of picking berries from the bushes under the trees while Katniss tells me about how her own father took her to pick the ripe strawberries last week before starting school. As we continue to work on the next page – an image of the baby girl with berries in her hands and red juice on her cheeks – she begins humming as if absentmindedly, and I find it harder to focus on the drawing as I take in the beauty of her voice muffled by her closed lips.

 

As we finish our story with a drawing of Katniss and I holding the little girl’s hands between us, a basket of strawberries in our other hands, Katniss smiles and gives her approval of the artwork that, except for the leaves on the trees, is all my creation. The teacher soon announces that it’s the end of the day and we each hand her our finished works before walking out of the classroom for the weekend. Katniss is humming again as she half-walks, half-skips down the hallway and out the door next to me before saying “Goodbye, Peeta!” in that singsong voice of hers.

 

I watch her for a moment as she starts to skip away, stopping to pick some dandelions and then continuing on to a pretty blonde woman who must be her mother, presenting her with the yellow bouquet. As they turn around I make my way to where my own father is waiting with a smile and a small bag that looks to be just the right size for a square of fudge.

 

I run up to him, either to claim my treat, but he holds it just out of my reach as he kneels down in front of me.

 

“So, son, you’ve made a new friend, I see,” he says, and I know he saw my exchange with Katniss moments before.

 

Instead of feeling embarrassed though, I smile back at him and announce confidently, “I’m going to marry her.”

My father laughs a little before ruffling my hair and standing up, holding out the treat for at last. It tastes even better than I imagined as I think of sharing such a delightful snack with the little baby girl from our pi


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep intending to make these chapters longer, but then have trouble finding a good stopping point and just want to post it for you. So, here’s chapter two.
> 
> As for the song that the title of this story is derived from, here’s your clue: it’s by a very famous American musician of the past century who passed away in 2003.

**Chapter 2**

When I go back to school on Monday morning, Miss Blackwater announces that we will be presenting our stories to the class, so we need to find our partners again. I’m in a great mood as Katniss makes her way over to me again, smiling as she sits down.

 

“Hi,” I greet her and she nods. Miss B. says we’ll be going around the room starting by the door, so Katniss and I will be second to last to present. After the first few stories, I’m bored so I start doodling on a piece of paper from my notebook. In a few minutes, Katniss notices and grabs her pencil to start a game of tic-tac-toe. She beats me twice before I win one round, and then she seems to have lost interest in the game as she points to my hand holding the pencil.

 

“What?” I whisper, as she appears to be asking me a question. I let go of the pencil and hold out my hand to her.

 

She inspects it for a moment and then whispers, “You’re left handed.”

 

I look down at my hands, making an “L” shape with the thumb and pointer finger of each and finding that she is correct. I hadn’t even noticed myself.

 

“Why?” she asks me, and I shrug in response. She picks up her pencil again and flattens my hand down on the piece of paper and then traces around it, then motions for me to do the same for her. Then, she starts drawing something along the fingers, and it takes me a moment to realize she’s making them into turkeys. She starts to write her name under hers, before she looks at me, and whispers, “How do you spell ‘Peeta’?”

 

I go to write it myself, but she shakes her head, so I whisper back – the way I’ve been practicing all weekend – _P-E-E-T-A_. She then starts drawing smaller scribbles that appear to be baby turkeys, although I’ve never seen one. After the first too, I take the pencil from her to draw more; she isn’t that great of an artist, but I don’t mind. When I’m up to nine baby turkeys, Katniss giggles and Miss B. seems to finally notice that we aren’t paying attention.

 

She clears her throat and we both look up, the other kids now looking in our direction. I shrink in my seat as she reprimands us for being disrespectful, but Katniss doesn’t seem ashamed. After several more moments, she draws some flowers and hearts around our turkey family until it’s our turn to present. Katniss holds up the illustrations as I narrate for the class, and when we return to our seats, I motion for her to take the turkey drawing with her back to her usual seat. She shakes her head and pushes it back towards me, telling me to keep it with a smile. I keep the drawing taped to the wall next to my pillow for years after that.

 

~~

The following summer, shortly before school starts and Katniss and I are now six years old, I’m working in the kitchen with my father one Sunday when there’s a knock at the back door. My dad, his arms covered in flour, asks me to answer it, and I’m pleasantly surprised when I open it to see Katniss standing there with a tall, handsome man who must be her father. I hadn’t seen much of her since school had let out in June.

 

“Peeta!” she says to me with a smile and a wave. I smile back at her when my father walks over to see who it is.

 

When he sees Mr. Everdeen, a look of what must be shyness crosses over his face for a split second before he smiles back and greets the man. Katniss wraps her arms around her father’s leg as he holds up two plump squirrels to trade for bread. My father inspects them for a second before he looks to me, asking my opinion of them. I just nod back to him, feeling bashful that the attention is turned to me.

 

My father walks back to bag the loaves in exchange while I stand there, quietly watching as Katniss hums and laughs at her father’s feet.

 

“Chickadee, are you going to introduce me to your friend?” her father asks her. She steps away from him and grabs my hand as she tells him my name and that I’m in her class at school. He bends down to shake my hand and my father returns with the bread and holds it out to him.

 

Katniss happily snatches it as my father takes the squirrels, making polite conversation with Mr. Everdeen.

 

Katniss looks excited as she tells me that soon she and her dad will be able to pick strawberries again. I tell her that I’ve never tasted a strawberry myself; my mother rarely lets us eat any of the treats we bake. In fact, she _never_ lets us eat “the merchandise;” it’s my father who occasionally sneaks us a bite.

 

She frowns before telling me she will bring me some to share in secret as soon as she gets them, and I’m happily anticipating the fulfillment of her promise, if only because it means she will talk to me again soon.

 

~~

 

The first of first grade, I’m opening my bagged lunch as I make my way to a picnic table in the grass where Delly and my brother are sitting, when I feel someone poke my shoulder. I turn and smile as I see Katniss standing there, and she grabs my wrist and holds her fist over my hand to drop a small bag of four red strawberries into my palm. She gives me a conspiratorial smile as she pulls me away to sit under a tree to eat the berries in secret so that we won’t have to share with anyone else. And afterwards, when she licks her fingers, I feel a little fluttering in my chest that I struggle to make sense of for years to come, when Katniss brings me this treat every September after.

 

~~

 

It’s the week before the Harvest Festival in late October when I’m nine years old, and I’m putting the batch of pumpkin pastries my father and I made earlier this morning out on display. My brother Rye is sweeping the floor while my mother is in the back doing the books while my eldest brother, Graham, is baking in the kitchen.

Then, the front door opens and a pretty face walks in next to her father, who’s softly singing a song that sounds much more somber than the Valley Song, but just as beautiful.

 

Katniss smiles when she sees me, and I almost drop the pastry in my hand at the beautiful sight. Mr. Everdeen tells my father that they would like to purchase a special treat for his younger daughter, Primrose, whose birthday is in a few days. I take Katniss’ hand as I lead her back to the kitchen, under the premise of showing her what I’ve been making, but with every intention of sneaking her a bite. I’m showing her the turkey shapes I’m icing on some cupcakes while she watches me with curious grey eyes, when we hear my mother’s voice, looking for my father as she whines that the profit margins aren’t at the level she would like to support _his_ three sons.  It’s no secret that my mother wanted her third child to be a girl, and she reminds us all on a daily basis that she’s been cursed with me. Graham is suspiciously missing when she walks into the kitchen and her cold eyes land on Katniss and me.

 

She scowls, “Peeta, what are you doing bringing a _seam brat_ into the kitchen?” she grabs my arm roughly then and yanks me towards her. “I’ve told you before, they are filth! You can’t let these _vermin_ in the kitchen, we’ll have to throw out this whole batch of cupcakes now that they’re contaminated!”

 

Her voice, as well as her anger, is rising and I flinch, knowing what’s about to come. I close my eyes as I see her drawing her hand back, preparing for the impact.

 

But it doesn’t come. Instead, I feel a soft hand pull me backwards and open my eyes to see Katniss has moved to stand in front of me, shielding me from my mother. My mother is frozen in shock as Katniss speaks up.

 

“Don’t you touch him!” she shouts, furious.

 

My mother finally finds words as she snaps back, “Excuse me?”

 

“ _Don’t touch him!_ ” Katniss repeats. “He didn’t do anything bad. A mother isn’t supposed to hurt her children!”

 

My mother makes a sound of disgust, but even she can’t hide the awe at such a small girl displaying such nerve. After a few moments she speaks again.

 

“And just who might your filthy little girlfriend here be, Peeta?” she turns to me, still shielded by Katniss’ small body and fury.

 

I’m stuttering as I start to answer, but Katniss beats me to it. “Katniss Everdeen,” she says proudly, showing no intention of moving out of the way.

 

Recognition crosses my mother’s face at the last name, and when she connects the dots of just _whose_ daughter Katniss is, the anger returns to her full force as her face reddens.

 

“Get out!” she spits in Katniss’ face. “Get out and never come back. You are forbidden from this bakery!”

 

I’m surprised at the raw hatred in her voice, but Katniss doesn’t flinch until my father and hers walk through the door to see what all the commotion is about. My father looks worried and a little scared as he realizes what’s happening, but her father seems serious and impassive as he walks over and scoops Katniss up, ignoring her protests, and walks out the door as she calls for me over her shoulder.

 

My parents get into an argument about my mother causing a semi-public scene, while she denies responsibility and blames it on me for being so stupid as to bring a _seam brat_ into the kitchen. I wait for my father to call her out on the derogatory term, but he doesn’t. He tries to look calm as he turns to me, instructing me to go upstairs.

 

From my room, I can vaguely hear their argument continue. I pull the blanket over my head as I try to drown them out, feeling frustrated as hot tears come to my eyes and willing myself not to let them fall. After what seems like an eternity, they finally quiet down, and moments later I hear heavy footsteps coming up the stairs.

 

I brace myself, expecting it to be my mother, rolling pin in hand, but it’s my father. He walks in and sits on the bed next to me, remaining silent for a few minutes.

 

“I’m sorry, son,” he begins, breaking the heavy silence. I look up at him and he continues.

 

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to hang around Kat – um, that little girl, anymore,” he says, awkwardly avoiding speaking her name.

 

My stomach drops. “What? Why?! I won’t bring her in the kitchen anymore, I promise!” I plead.

 

But my father just shakes his head, defeated. “I’m sorry Peeta. Your mother is concerned about the effect this could have on the business. She wants to send you to the community home, and this is the only compromise I could make so that you could stay here.” He truly looks sorry, but I’m angry. It’s not unheard of for some families in the district to send away their youngest children to the community home, unable to support another mouth to feed. That should never be the case with the family who owns the bakery, though, and my father knows it.

 

“Why don’t you just yell at her? You’re my father! You have a say in my life just as much as she does!” I shout, standing up as my father shushes me. “Why do you let her push you around?!”

 

My father doesn’t meet my gaze. “I’m just trying to do what’s best for you,” he sounds monotone as he says this. Before I can respond, he gets up and leaves the room, closing the door behind him. I collapse onto the bed and groan into my pillow, too angry for tears now.

 

I don’t know how long I stay like this before Rye comes in and sits down on his bed.

 

“What’s wrong baby bro?”

 

I wonder how he didn’t hear all the yelling from earlier, but I guess he must’ve run out the door as soon as he heard my mother’s booming voice. It’s what any of us would do in situations where we have the chance to escape.

 

I sit up, feeling my face burn as I solemnly tell him, “I’m not allowed to be friends with Katniss anymore.”

 

I fully expect him to make fun of me for my infatuation, as he has countless times before, but instead he just nods.

 

I lay back down and put my hands in my hair, pulling with frustration, when I hear him say, “I’m sorry, brother.” It may not sound like much, but coming from Rye, who’s existence seems to be focused on teasing me at every possible chance, it means a lot. It’s not often that Rye offers his sympathies, and now it only provides further proof of how miserable the situation is for me. I go to bed that night feeling hopeless and defeated, my energy drained after the rollercoaster of emotions from today.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

I’m now dreading the Harvest Festival. It starts tonight, and I’ve been up since four helping my father and brothers in the kitchen while Mom keeps going on about how we need to sell more than we have in the past six years if we want to get our profits back up. Back up to where, I don’t know; she already treats us like we’re dirt poor, only allowing us the stale bread that doesn’t sell in rationed amounts per day. My brothers and I have started to wonder what exactly she’s doing with all that profit she’s so obsessed with. Rye smugly suggested that maybe she’s paying another man for company, but Graham snorted and said with mother’s charming personality, only the wealthiest people in the Capitol would be able to pay someone to sleep with her. I almost feel bad about the way we joke about our mother like this, but now I just think of her exiling Katniss last week and it seems well deserved.

 

Mother will surely be breathing fire down our necks all night as we work the baked goods stand, which means I’ll be lucky to get a bathroom break, let alone time to walk around or see any of my friends. Especially not Katniss…

 

I try to just get over her, but I only end up distracting myself long enough to forget why I need to. It doesn’t help that I’m feeling guilty about the way I’ve ignored her all week at school with no explanation. On Monday morning, she tried to seek me out, probably to ask if I was okay after my mother’s tantrum, but I saw her coming and ducked away into the nearest classroom, hiding like a scared little boy.

 

I’m starting to think my mother’s onto something when she calls me a pathetic coward. After all, I’ve been sick to my stomach with fear and worry all week because my mother doesn’t like one of my friends. I should tell her to go to hell, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Maybe it’s the fear of knowing she won’t hesitate to shut the oven door on my arms if she’s moderately annoyed with me.

 

I’m thinking about all of this when I stumble carrying a tray of cookies to the icing table and a few slide off the tray and onto the floor. Before I can even curse myself, her hand is gripping my collar.

 

“You stupid boy!” she snaps. “Have you not been listening to me all day? We _can’t afford_ any mistakes tonight. We’ll have to cut some of the luxuries you boys live with if we don’t meet the quota! Do you not _care_? Do you _want_ to live like those brats in the Seam?”

 

My blood is boiling and I want so badly to yell back at her, but I know that will only land me with another injury that she refuses to let me see the apothecary about, trying to keep her abuse a secret as if the whole district hasn’t seen the bruises. Instead I just move out of her grasp, cleaning up my mess before I place the remaining cookies on the cooling racks.

 

I try to lose myself in my work for the rest of the day, but still my mind wanders. What if I see Katniss tonight? What if she comes to the bakery stand? What if she tries to talk to me despite my mother’s banishment? I can’t let that happen. If only there were some way to get a message to her…

 

>> 

 

Later that evening, I’m working the stand with my brothers when some merchant girls from Rye’s year come over to us. Rye’s recently turned 12, and his interest in girls is becoming less about teasing and more about hormones. One of the girls who come over is a curly blonde named Laurel whose father runs the woodshop. Rye leans against the stand, trying to flirt with her and despite his quick wit, when his voice cracks the spell is broken. Laurel still laughs, and then once again I’m thinking of Katniss, imagining making her laugh like that.

 

I’m pulled from my thoughts when Mom comes over, snapping at Rye for fooling around and smacking the back of his head – a mild form of punishment coming from her. After lecturing us all once again, she spots Mayor Undersee and his family and runs off to pester them.

 

I’m loading a back up with the next order when I hear a shy voice say, “Hey, Peeta.” I look up to see Madge Undersee standing there, no doubt escaping from the conversation between her parents and my mother. Lucky girl.

 

“Hi Madge,” I smiled politely. “Is there something I can help you with?”

 

She eyes the desserts, “Hmm, do you have anything strawberry?”

 

“Well, it’s a bit late in the season for strawberries,” the truth is Katniss had brought me the last batch almost 4 weeks ago. “But these sugar cookies are made with strawberry flavored icing,” I show her the pink cookies. She asks for 2, and I’m bagging them up for her when she clears her throat and speaks again, making sure no one’s paying attention to our conversation.

 

“Um, Peeta?” she asks and I look up. “Did something happen between you and Katniss?”

 

I freeze. She’s more perceptive than I thought. Katniss and I have been friends, yes, but we don’t really hang out with the same crowd at school. In fact, Katniss usually partners up with Madge in our classes, and they sit together at lunch. Maybe Katniss has talked to her about me…

 

Even though that though excites me, it stings to bring up her name. I realized I haven’t answered Madge yet and start to speak.

 

“Um, it’s a long story,” I say, trying to convey my remorse with my tone. I’m pretty sure Katniss is upset, or at least confused, by my blatant avoidance of her. I really do owe her an explanation.

 

Madge nods in understanding, reaching out to place her hand over mine in a comforting gesture. Then, an idea comes to me.

 

“Madge?” I start, lowering my voice. “Do you… Do you think you could pass a note on to Katniss?”

 

She looks intrigued, and nods. I quickly turn over to the back of her receipt and scribble out a message:

 

_Kat,_

_I’m sorry for what happened. Please don’t be upset. My parents say I can’t be friends with you anymore, or else I’ll be sent to the community home. I’m so sorry, Katniss._

_-P_

I don’t write my full name, in some lame attempt to be secretive. I quickly place the receipt in the bag and hand it over to Madge, my heart breaking as I watch her walk away. Why did I think that was a good idea? Now Katniss will definitely think I’m a coward, ending our friendship in a scribbled note on the back of a receipt that I’m not even handing to her myself. Pathetic.

 

I feel empty the rest of the evening, being much less talkative than usual with the customers and going through the motions, trying not to look around for risk of seeing her. I shouldn’t have brought Katniss in the kitchen last week. I knew Mom was home, and I’ve heard enough of her tirades about the starving seam children digging through our trash to know how she’d react to Katniss. This is all my fault. I couldn’t even stand up to her myself – Katniss stepped in to protect me. How can I expect someone that brave to want to be around me? I don’t deserve her attention.

 

>> 

 

The one good thing that comes from Katniss’ challenging my mother is that she’s more careful about her abuse, in a way. Mom is extremely concerned with what people think of her, so for a few months she tries to restrain herself from hitting us too hard, not wanting to leave a bruise for everyone to see. It’s strange to see her attempt self-control with us, but she finds other ways to take out her frustrations. Her arguments with my father become more frequent, she’s out with her sister almost every night. Not having her around in the evenings has given my brothers and I the chance to laugh and play and wrestle without worry of getting in trouble. Mom has done her best to try and isolate me from Rye and Graham; I’m the “mistake,” the disappointment. I had always thought my brothers believed her on some level before I notice the change in our relationship when she’s barely around.

 

I make sure to stay away from the kitchen on Sundays, not wanting to see Katniss and her father as they stop to trade. It would just be too painful. And humiliating. What does Mr. Everdeen think of me now? That day in the kitchen, he had said nothing as he retrieved Katniss and walked out the door, he hadn’t reacted to the look on her face or the way she was calling out to me. Has she told him what happened? Do her parents not want her to see me either?

 

These anxious thoughts overwhelm me for the first few months, but they come in less frequent bursts as times goes on. It’s still hard to look at her at school; I don’t even know what she thought of my note. I don’t have the courage to ask her, though.

 

The winter when we’re 11, we’re sitting at school, quietly doing a test on none other than coal production, when there’s a vibration through the ground and a distant _BOOM!_ that must be coming from the mines. I can’t help but look to Katniss, and see that her head has shot up like a startled animal, a look of pure terror on her face. The teacher walks out into the hallway, whispering to the other teachers to find out what’s going on. Some kids start whispering; a merchant boy jokes about miners being trapped in a collapse, and nearly every seam kid starts to panic. Soon there are students just up and leaving, going to see what happened. Katniss is one of them.

 

Those of us who remain are dismissed early, and many of the kids rush towards the mines to catch a glimpse of all the commotion. I don’t, though; I can’t. I have a sinking feeling in my chest, and I suspect that seeing me wouldn’t help Katniss in whatever state she’s in. I say a silent prayer to the wind, pleading for her father’s safety. I know Katniss lives in the poorest part of the district. The last thing she needs is to be left fatherless at age 11, with no income to support her or her family. Surely the world can’t be that cruel.

 

But it is. I feel numb when I hear the news, mother actually _snorts_ , saying the seam is overpopulated as it is and we could use a little accident like this to balance out the numbers. I’m appalled at her disregard of human life; I can’t control my temper and surprise everyone with my strength when I flip the dinner table and stomp out of the house before my mother can put her hands on me. Without realizing it, my feet take me to the fence that locks us in from the forest outside. They tell us that the fence is electrified and I’ve never felt a reason to doubt that. In my anger, I toss the biggest rock I can find at the fence with all my might, and then another, and another. When I’m finally winded, I sit down in the grass and take in the damage I’ve done. My frustration turns to curiosity when I look up and see I’ve bent part of the wire with one of my rocks, creating an opening about three feet tall and three feet wide. In the setting sunlight, my first reaction is to worry that someone saw me, but there’s no one around. Everyone’s huddled away, mourning the tragedy. Then, I start to fear that some wild beast could make it through the whole, and I’m staring at it trying to figure out how to fix it when a bunny rabbit sprints passed me and into the woods.

 

If a wild rabbit seems to fear no predators… Maybe the horror stories of attacks from wild animals is just more Capitol propaganda. I’m considering dashing through the fence myself when I hear a rustling near by, and reflexively turn and run towards home. The sun has set by the time I get there and the house is quiet, thankfully. I really don’t feel like speaking to anybody right now. When I lay in bed that night, I start to wonder what kind of possibilities I’ve opened by my revelation about the fence.

 

>> 

 

The winter is long and harsh. There are more starving children than usual begging in the alleyways, digging through the trash cans. On a particularly cold and rainy night in March, I’m baking some bread in the kitchen in silence while my mother works on the books. We’ve started to notice her sense of hearing is going; she talks loudly all the time and asks us to repeat ourselves often, whining about our constant “mumbling.”

 

It’s because of this that when I first hear the trashcans being shaken around, I have a head start to see who it is out there before my mother comes and scares them away.

 

My heart stops as I see the familiar dark braid, soaking in the freezing rain as her bony limbs struggle to find any form of sustenance among the rubbish. I almost open the door to call out to her when my mother finally comes over to see what I’m looking at.

 

Instantly furious, she storms out the door with a broom in hand, screaming at the girl to go back to the rat hole she came from, luckily it’s so dark that she doesn’t make out the face. Who knows what she would’ve done if she’d realized the starving child is Katniss.

 

I’m still staring out the window, shocked and hurt at the sight before me when my mother comes back in and snaps at me to get back to work. I have never wanted her to disappear more than I do at this moment. I make a rash decision then, going to put the hearty loaves I’ve been kneading into the oven. I set the timer a bit longer than is necessary, and the outcome is exactly what I’d hoped. Even though her hearing may be going, my mother’s sense of smell still works fine, and when she gets a whiff of the burning scent she rushes to remove the hot bread from the oven. I’m not surprised at all when she comes at me with the rolling pin, but I pay no attention to the pain. She reacts exactly as I’d predicted, bitching about what a reckless imbecile I am and commanding me to feed the burnt bread to the pigs. I resist the urge to smirk as I remember the desperation of the girl out back, slumped under the apple tree and nearly lifeless.

 

My mother walks out of the room and I opened the door now that the coast is clear. I don’t want Katniss to get caught after all of this. As I step out, I break of the blackest pieces and toss them to the pigs before I turn to her and our eyes meet. I look back into the kitchen once more before I dash out to the tree, shoving the loves into her arms.

 

She looks at me, eyes wide in confusion and shock. “Take them,” I say. When she doesn’t move I speak more urgently. “Hurry! Take them! Get out of here before she sees!” After another moment she does as I say and I run back inside and turn to watch her figure disappear in the darkness.

 

I may be a coward. I probably am a disappointment. But at least I know that Katniss will have something to eat tonight.

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

In my concern for the starving girl last night, I hadn’t realized that the rolling pin had broken skin. When I wake up in the morning, I find a red stain on my pillow and register an ache on the side of my head, near my ear. I go to touch the area and I can feel a sticky scab beginning to form over the gash surrounded by my matted hair.

 

Great. I’m definitely going to be late for school today since I now have to wash the dried blood out of my hair and soak this pillow case before anyone in my family sees. It would only start an argument between my parents and my brothers would ask me what I had done to get such an injury. Not to mention, the whole district would gossip about my mother’s abuse even more than they already do.

 

No, I’m not going to let any attention be drawn to myself. I don’t want anyone’s pity; I’m nearly 12 years old and getting stronger every day. I will not continue to be the poor young boy always beaten down by his bitter, old mother for the crime of being born a male.

 

Mother is nagging at me that morning as I rush down the stairs probably fifteen minutes after my brothers had already left. I’m sure they tried to wait for me, but could only stall so much before my mother lashed out at them. No matter; I don’t need someone to walk me to school.

 

I’ve at least been able to comb my hair over the scab and wash out the evidence of the broken skin. I don’t want to be questioned about it; not because I’m ashamed to admit my mom did it, but because I don’t want to spread any stories – true or embellished – about Katniss.

 

I’m surprised when I see her in the schoolyard that day. I’ve developed a bruise on my cheek as well, but that’s normal for me by now. No one questions my bruises anymore.

 

When our eyes meet I can tell from her expression that she knows why I have the bruise today. The confidence I’d felt this morning disintegrates and I’m now embarrassed of what I did – I could’ve done more. I could’ve made sure she was safe. I could’ve approached her weeks ago before her suffering had a chance to make it halfway through death’s door. I could’ve tried to be friends with her despite my mother’s banishment and threats. I would take being sent to the community home if it meant I could still have her in my life.

 

Katniss breaks her gaze, looking a bit embarrassed herself before she leans down and picks a bright yellow dandelion from the cold, muddy ground. There’s actually a small smile on her lips as she looks at it, wheels turning in her mind, and then she turns and walks away confidently toward the meadow. I wonder pathetically if I had anything to do with that smile.

 

>> 

 

Over the months that follow, the color starts to return to Katniss’ cheeks. I’m not sure what exactly the cause is, but I’m grateful to see her gaining some weight and energy.

 

She is different, though. She doesn’t smile much anymore, certainly doesn’t sing – I still listen for her beautiful voice among our classmates in music assembly. The lyrics may contain blind praises for the Capitol, but I’d happily listen to her melodic voice sing about anything. I don’t hear it anymore.

 

She still sits with Madge at lunch. I’m staring at her across the lunchroom; she doesn’t look up, only occasionally nods along with whatever Madge is saying. Neither of them are really talkers, so it isn’t much.

 

I watch as she plays with the end of her braid, undoing it a bit and then braiding it again. Her hair’s grown much longer now. At fourteen, most of the girl in our class are starting to shape into women, and though Katniss is smaller than most, she is no exception. It becomes nearly tortuous to try and forget about her now. Whether I want to or not, my mind – and body – is always acutely aware of when she’s near. Even though it sends butterflies through me, it’s also highly annoying.

 

I feel someone tap my shoulder and look away from my gawking to find my friends all looking at me from around the table.

 

“Who you staring at, Peeta?” my friend Jude asks. I blush and before I can come up with a lie he continues his teasing. “Madge? Mmm, she’s getting quite the pair of knockers, if you know what I mean,” he says crudely.

 

“Jude!” Delly scolds from beside me, flustered.

 

Jude winks at her, “Don’t be jealous, Dell. You’re on your way there too.”

 

Delly makes a noise of disgust, but there is still a blush creeping into her cheeks. Huh, does Delly actually _like_ the immature sack of eggs called Jude?

 

Conversation steers away from me after that, and I’m relieved that I haven’t been caught in my unrequited longing.

 

At least, I thought I wasn’t caught, but when I’m walking home from school that day Delly questions me as my eyes follow Katniss walking with Prim across the schoolyard.

 

“It’s her, isn’t it?” she says. I look at her dumbly and she continues, “The girl you casually stare at all the time?” She’s got a playful smile on her face.

 

I look down at the ground, embarrassed and not trusting my eyes to resist focusing right back on the dark braid walking away from us. We walk in silence for a few moments before I look up again to see her watching my face carefully. I sense the unspoken question and nod shyly as I look down again, counting the cracks in the pavement. I may be a smooth liar, but Delly always sees right through me. This is also very annoying. Thankfully, she doesn’t question me any more about it and goes right in to talking about something else. I can always count on Delly the chatterbox to fill an awkward silence.

 

>> 

 

As the Harvest Festival approaches, my mother is becoming insufferable. She lashes out at all of us on a daily basis, and my father practically begs her to run errands or spend time with her sister just to get her away from us while we work. She’s been hitting us all frequently, but I’m used to it enough now that I hardly register the pain. I’m taller than her now, and getting stronger every day from the heavy lifting and wrestling practice.

 

Rye is going on about the two different girls he’d promised a free treat to tonight at the start of the festival, and we’re all half-listening, half-smirking at each other. Rye thinks he’s such a player, but you’d have to be blind not to see right through him. He’s so full of crap. It’s kind of endearing, though. Maybe that’s why girls go along with it, to get to the goofy teddy bear behind the joking and acting macho.

 

“What about you, Peet? Got a special girl to spoil with pastries this evening?” he wiggles his eyebrows at me.

 

I shake my head, deflecting, but he doesn’t give up. “Awe, come on! Not even a certain beauty whose name you’ve been moaning in your sleep?”

 

Rye is very much aware of my infatuation. After all, I’ve still got that turkey drawing hanging next to my pillow, and despite his endless teasing, I just can’t bring myself to take it down.

 

My eyes snap to him, giving him a warning. _Say any more and I’ll rip that smirk right off your face._

 

“Oh, cut the bullshit, Rye,” Graham says. “The only one moaning in his sleep is you waking us up every night.” He then breaks into an embarrassing rendition of Rye’s voice saying Laurel’s name like a mantra. Thank goodness I have one good brother.

 

“Boys, enough,” my father scolds, though the suppressed smile on his face betrays his tone. It’s so much better when Mom isn’t around. I feel guilty wishing it could be like that all the time.

 

Naturally our respite doesn’t last for long. Soon enough, Mom’s back and breathing fire down our backs. I’m trying to just grin and bear it until the festival begins and she’ll be preoccupied trying to socialize with the wealthier families in the district.

 

There’s a knock on the back door and I freeze. Every Sunday, Gale Hawthorne comes to trade with my father – fresh game in exchange for bread. I’ve heard people talk, I know he’s frequently seen with Katniss making trades around the district, but she’s never with him when he stops here. When I first realized she must be avoiding the bakery on purpose, I was hurt, but then I felt ridiculous – of course Katniss would avoid the bakery. She had every reason to, including blatant orders from my witch of a mother to stay away.

 

There’s a moment of heavy silence after we all hear the knock. Gale trades here on Sundays because Mother is never around on Sundays. But tonight begins the Harvest festival, and Mom is definitely around.

 

“Who’s that? Are you expecting someone, Levi?” my mother snaps. My father looks as scared as the rest of us, staring blankly back at her, unable to formulate a response.

 

Mom huffs impatiently and goes to answer the door herself. It’s then that I’m able to move again and step forward clumsily to try and close the door before she can see who’s on the otherside.

 

I’m half successful. I slam the door shut and stand in front of it, but this only annoys my mother and makes her more curious as to who our visitor is. She grabs for the handle but I block it with my own.

 

“Move out of my way, Peeta,” she hisses at me lowly. I don’t move until my father speaks up.

 

“Peeta, let her answer it. Go out front and start packing up the displays. I’ll take care of this,” he tries to sound calm but I can see the apprehension in his eyes.

 

Hesitantly, I do as he says, and cringe when I hear the door slam not a minute later. My mother’s angry tirade begins and I try to block out the cruel insults she hurling both at people from the Seam and my father for trading our _merchandise_ for nasty “rodent meat” when we need coins to acquire a suitable profit. She hardly takes a second to breathe, so I don’t hear if my dad tries to rebuke anything she’s saying.

 

After a little while, the yelling dies down. I’ve been taking my good old time on the task Dad assigned to avoid having to face the melee going on behind the kitchen door. I wait a few moments until I’m sure Mom has left and head back in.

 

The tension is palpable immediately; my brothers don’t even look up as I walk by them towards the table I was icing cakes on earlier. I’m just picking up the bag of icing when Dad stops me with a gentle hand on my arm.

 

“Why don’t you go upstairs and get ready son? I’ll finish this before your mother returns,” he says. A little confused, I slowly turn and head upstairs. It’s rare that I get to be first to shower – I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve bathed in warm, let alone hot, water.

 

I try to relax and wash up quickly to save water for my brothers. I’m anxious to go back down and set up our stand in the square, just to taste a bit of freedom being out of my mother’s dungeon for a few hours.

 

I’m alone in the kitchen – my dad and brothers are already in the square – carefully packing up the cakes we’ve prepared into boxes when Mom returns. You’d think she’d have calmed down by now – it’s not like we brought a “seam brat” into the kitchen this time. Wrong.

 

“You!” she snaps at me, clearly still just as irritated as the last time I was in her presence. Even though I should see these things coming by now, I’m startled when she storms up to me and grabs me by the caller so she can get right in my face.

 

“You just can’t stay away from that Seam trash, can you?” her arm pounds against my chest, harder than usual. It’s not really painful, but I flinch nevertheless. She notices and I swear she grins knowing she still holds this kind of power over me. I make my expression impassive immediately and stare back into her cold eyes.

 

She makes a noise of disgust before she shoves me backwards, mumbling more insults. I don’t hear them; my mind is suddenly flooded with the pain I can feel coming from my right forearm.

 

I hiss as I regain my balance. She’s pushed my right up against the open oven. We just turned them off and left them open to cool off before heading to the square. That had only been minutes ago, and the opening is still glowing hot. My sleeves are rolled up passed my elbows from working all day, and the hot metal side of the oven has melted a long gash of skin where my arm made contact with it. I don’t pay attention to see my mother’s reaction before she walks out the door, wincing as I try to place a cool rag over the burn. It doesn’t help, but I hold it there for a few minutes anyways until I can collect myself enough to head out to the square.

 

Already a lot of people are out and about, talking, dancing, eating, enjoying the evening off. It’s challenging to hide the pain I’m in as my skin continues to melt, now a hot pink color and starting to blister. I try rolling my sleeves back down to cover it, but the contact with the cloth is even more excruciating than the burning sensation that’s already prevalent.

 

Of course, she had to do this now. She couldn’t have waited until after the festival to lash out on me, at least giving me the night to come up with a story and figure out a way to hide the ugly, seared flesh. I have absolutely no patience for this right now, so I decide to just act as if it isn’t there; I ignore the questioning looks from my brothers and the customers that stop by. When Rye initially tries to ask, I give him my worst scowl and he shuts up.

 

It’s nearly the end of the night, the pain in my arm is still excruciating, but at least soon I’ll be able to go home, away from the pitiful looks everyone keeps giving me. I’m just telling my father I’m not feeling well and want to head home after the next order when a familiar voice interrupts my thoughts as its owner approaches the stand.

 

Primrose Everdeen is dragging her reluctant older sister up to the bakery stand, three coins in her hand and a wide smile on her face. She asks for one of the specially frosted cookies, but I’m frozen in place and my father takes care of it.

 

Katniss finally looks up to offer me a sad, embarrassed smile when her eyes dart to the large red mark on my arm and her expression goes from shocked to angry in seconds.

 

 _I can’t take this. I can’t deal with Katniss Everdeen’s pity right now_. These thoughts consume me and I turn and bolt away, at first unsure where I’m going until I find myself at the edge of the meadow. I clumsily sit down in the tall grass and groan, putting my head between my knees in utter humiliation. _Great, now she knows I’m still just as weak as I was that day in the kitchen_.

 

Despite my avid refusal to accept anyone else’s pity, I sit there for a while throwing my own pity party in solitude. I don’t know how much time has passed when I finally sit up and am suddenly aware of a presence next to me.

 

I look over, and even though I already know who it is, inhale sharply as my eyes meet the beautiful grey ones staring back at me. For the hundredth time today, I’m frozen and speechless.

 

“I’m-“ she starts, and I begin to scowl expecting an apology to come from her mouth, but she stops, takes a deep breath, and starts again.

 

“I hate her,” she whispers, even though there’s no one else around to overhear. “I hate her,” she repeats a little louder this time. She’s staring angrily at my arm, and before I can draw it back to my lap in an attempt to hide it, her eyes dart back to meet mine and she speaks again.

 

“You’re stronger than her,” she declares. At first I think she’s reprimanding me, but the fury in her eyes isn’t aimed at me. “Don’t you _ever_ believe a word she says!” she commands. “You’re so much stronger than her and every person in this district knows it,” she says with more compassion. “Except you,” she finishes softly.

 

I don’t know what to say, so I just stare back at her in awe. Everyone knows it? Does that mean she believes it, too?

 

She surprises me even more than I could’ve thought possible then. She reaches for my hand, gently but firmly holding it in hers. “She doesn’t have the right to make you feel inferior,” she says with resolve. Less than a second later, she’s leaning forward, and I just register her soft lips on my cheek when she drops my hand and stands in one swift movement, walking away and leaving me stunned – and strangely, comforted, inspired even – as I sit there in the grass where moments before I’d been wallowing in shame, convinced that I’m a complete coward.

 

Once again, Katniss’ actions have an overwhelming effect on me. It’s true… I am physically stronger than my mother. But I’m starting to think I hold strength in more ways than one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your kudos and comments and thank you for reading! I hope this chapter didn't disappoint.


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